


ooo, you make me live

by hepsybeth



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Urban Fantasy, Café Musain, M/M, Multi, Nihilism, Vampire Grantaire, Werewolves, Witches, i'll add tags as i go lol, like 'urban fantasy' but it's still hidden yfm?, like c'mon it's R, technically there's a major character death but grantaire had to get dead in order to get undead, this is set ambiguously in the past so let's so it's the 90s
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-30
Updated: 2018-11-07
Packaged: 2019-08-11 01:42:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16466297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hepsybeth/pseuds/hepsybeth
Summary: (this was meant to be one chapter for halloween but i got attached)grantaire is a vampire who, with the help of friends, discovers the meaning of life (after death)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> i...have other things i'm writing but it's the holiday season i guess (even though, it's gonna keep going like even in november but yeah)
> 
> i like vampires, i like grantaire, so. y'know. *jazz hands*

Vampires didn’t venture out to coffee shops during the daylight hours, but no one has ever accused Rene Grantaire of being a stickler for the rules.

Over-dressing was a must, despite it’s bulkiness and obvious inconvenience. It was a sunny spring day, one of the first that felt more warm than it did cold, and people everywhere had shed their wool coats and earmuffs in favor of tank tops and sun visors. It was still chilly in the morning, from what Grantaire had heard, but his scarves upon scarves was gaining more than a few odd looks from passersby since warmer days were here. He didn’t dwell on it, though. New towns always meant new stares. Eventually, those staring would find something stranger to focus on and, from Grantaire’s experience, there was always something stranger.

“Your cold is  _ still  _ that bad?” Joly had asked because that was the lie Grantaire was currently running with, that he just ran colder than everyone else and was more inclined to being sick. Hence, the scarves and abundance of sweaters. However, like most new towns, this lie would fall flat because he was never that apt at keeping his lies straight. Grantaire, more often than not, fell victim to his own stupidity.

Grantaire nodded while drinking his coffee. The coffee was more white than black, mixed with all the sweeteners, milk, and caramel drizzle it could physically handle. Joly had once ordered the same and, grimacing, had concluded that it was far too sweet for him. Fair enough, since flavors had to be ridiculously strong in order for him to taste it. Sweets had to be absolutely coated in sugar. Spicy food had to come with a minimum warning of a 5 hot pepper rating.

Unless it was blood, but that went without saying.

“You sure it’s just a cold?” Joly asked, flipping through his anatomy textbook that was had little notes furiously written in between the margins. Paragraphs were highlighted in so many different colors that it seemed almost impossible to spot the white. “For all you know, it could be something worse.”

“I’m sure it’s nothing, Mr. Webmd,” Grantaire chuckled, the steam of his coffee enveloping his face. “Speaking of which, how are finals?”

Joly rolled his eyes and bit into his blueberry muffin with a look of such utter resignation that it seemed to radiate from him in waves. “Mickey D’s always hiring, right?” At Grantaire’s smirk, Joly went on. “I feel confident about it. I’ll try to pull out all the stops, but that doesn’t stop Professor Delano from hitting us square in the face with a curveball. While we’re blindfolded.”

“Unfortunate,” Grantaire said after taking a sip of his coffee. All the sweeteners in the world and his coffee still tasted black with like a spoonful of some coffee-mate creamer. It was whatever. “How’s the planning for Bossuet’s surprise party.”

And Grantaire watched as the atmosphere of stress that seemed to chronically hover over Joly dissipate as if it were never there in the first place. He closed his textbook and shoved it away in his backpack in one smooth motion. He rested his chin in his hands and even the shitty piss-yellow overhead lights of the cafe weren’t able to hide his blush. “Where do I  _ begin? _ ”

So Joly began to talk on and on about Bossuet’s favorite movie (Back to the Future 2), and its incorporation into the party. Musichetta was apparently setting up the decorations  _ as we speak _ and Grantaire tried his hardest to stay awake, he really did. But vampires being up-and-at-’em during the daylight hours was against the unwritten vampiric laws--

—or, perhaps, they were written down. Fuck knows they lived long enough to put pen to miles upon miles of paper. Not that Grantaire ever looked into it—

—and fact of the matter is that it was a biology thing, or  _ something _ . Daylight was meant for sleeping, whether Grantaire liked it or not. Switching around his circadian rhythm took a toll on him every damn day. He could never sleep more than a few winks during the night, simply thirty minute spurts whenever his eyes managed to actually close. During the day, he felt more dead than undead. But fuck the laws, he figured. He always preferred being witness to the dawn and the dusk and every moment in between. Being  _ so fucking tired _ was the price he was willing to pay. What was gonna happen? He’d die twice?

Eventually, Joly got a call from Musichetta and explained that he needed to head out. Grantaire apologized for not being able to make it to the party, but to give Bossuet his love.

“And this,” Grantaire said, opening his own bag and pulling out a present wrapped in yellow smiley faces. “Put this under the Christmas tree. Or the birthday tree.”

“Nice,” Joly said, taking the present. “What is it?”

Grantaire smiled and gestured towards himself. “C’mon, it’s me. You should know by now that I don’t reveal my secrets.”

“You’re not gonna tell me what you painted?”

“Consider it a three-fer,” Grantaire said, finishing the last of his coffee. “You and Musi can get surprised with Bossuet.”

Joly laughed and gently placed the small painting into his bag. “Thanks, Grantaire. And see you later. While we eat cake, you’ll be in our thoughts.”

“Think about something else, Joly” Grantaire said and Joly simply smiled and shook his head, giving one final wave before exiting the cafe.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> another chapter because why not?

The most annoying thing about vampires, as Grantaire had come to learn, is that they were so damn secretive.

Perhaps, he only had that perspective because he was young. He wasn’t hundreds of years old, or even several decades. He was twenty-seven years old and had only been a vampire for the past four. He didn't know the ins and outs of vampire culture. He wasn’t aware of vampire secret societies (even though, he’d bet money that they were a thing) and the only time he’d been invited to a vampires-only party was when he got a super fancy invitation, with  _ far _ too much cursive and what appeared to be gold dust, requesting his presence at a certain ballroom in downtown Los Angeles (back when he’d decided to move to Los Angeles because he was a vampire now and what  _ else  _ was he doing?). He decided to not go because he didn’t know if he was ready to enter the social sphere of the vampire world (and the cursive and the wax stamps made it seem more like an Anne Rice cliche than anything else). He figured if they really needed him, they’d do their shady vampire shenanigans and let him know that the request was more of an order than anything else.

Nothing like that ever happened and he hadn’t gotten any invitations to super secret parties ever since. Whether that was due to him changing addresses or if declining a ballroom invitation was a misdemeanor of the greatest magnitude was something that he hadn’t yet figured out. It wasn’t like the Asshole who Turned him gave him a paperback handbook about vampire etiquette. 

As far as other vampires, Grantaire had only met two in the past four years, not including the Asshole who Turned him. He thought he’d met three, but the third was just a dude who happened to have a legitimate completely-human allergy to the sun. 

A week after Turning, Grantaire had met Louison. Louison had been an old friend of the Asshole who Turned him, but there had been a falling out decades before Grantaire had even been born. Louison met him at his apartment after he had fed for the first time (the movies were right about how messy it got sometimes) and she was carrying cleaning supplies. She had a buzzcut and a large nose and she didn’t talk much. After pestering, he learned about her relationship with the Asshole and how old she was (four hundred thirty-seven, which  _ still _ sounded like a fake number whenever Grantaire thought back to it). He asked if he could still eat fajitas (yes) and if he could drink Mendocinos (yes, but he wouldn’t get drunk unless he drank from a drunk person). He asked if he could see his reflection (no), if he could transform into a bat (it depends. She didn’t expand on this), if garlic was a no-no (only the flowers), if he needed permission to enter into a building (only if it was a house. Which seemed too vague, but she didn’t expand on this either). Grantaire was never well versed on vampire lore, so he didn’t have too many questions to ask. Louison eventually left after giving him a few tips on biting (learn self-control and you don’t need to kill someone dead in order drink your fill). She didn’t offer him any contact information, so he figured that was that.

Stupidly, he set his alarm for the morning like he’d always done and left the house at eight on pure automatic. Grantaire remembered a second too late that “sunlight” equaled “bad” before pulling back his hand that was beginning to catch on fire under the sun’s orange rays.

But he  _ had _ left the apartment, and it was only his hand that caught on fire and not his entire body, so he assumed that the rules could be bent so long as he covered up.

Grantaire met the second vampire at the Orpheum Theatre when he was living in Vancouver at the time. It was two years into his vampiric existence and he’d long since mastered the art of turning excessive sunblock, snazzy sunglasses, and wide-brimmed hats into something adjacent to high fashion (“lazy” would be the last thing to describe Grantaire and throwing together a safe outfit had evolved from strictly necessity to a hobby). There was a showing of The Phantom of the Opera playing that evening (the sun hadn’t set yet) and Grantaire had already bought tickets to watch the Angel of Music fall for the drama queen with the fucked up face. On the way inside, he saw a man waiting under a nearby lamp, flipping through a magazine. As Grantaire passed him, the other man raised his head and his eyes locked onto Grantaire’s. Then the man stretched his mouth into a knowing smile, revealing a set of razor sharp teeth. Grantaire nodded nervously, unsure of what else to do, and walked inside the movie palace, still feeling the vampire’s eyes on him. As he found his seat inside the theatre, two questions entered his mind.

Firstly, could vampires just “sense” other vampires? It wasn’t as if Grantaire was declaring it to the world other than being overdressed. However, plenty of people overdressed, even during the heat of summer. It was as if that vampire knew everything about him just because something in the air shifted.

Secondly, what was up with the teeth? Grantaire was basic, he supposed. He had the classic look, elongated canines that could grow and recede at will (although, it took several weeks and many a bitten tongue to finally master that). That vampire just had rows of shark-like teeth. It freaked Grantaire out for a good second before he wondered why that was.

Even the orchestra’s epic overture that filled the room wasn’t enough for Grantaire to stop thinking about it.

He never saw either again. Louison left his life as soon as she entered it and he hadn’t even exchanged words with the shark-teeth man. 

Then, there was Jehan.

Jehan was the first person he met in the City when Grantaire first moved there. Grantaire had taken the city bus to the local garden center because who the hell didn’t need succulents? His new apartment was bare and he was lacking inspiration for painting. Might as well draw plants. Get back to the basics.

The garden center itself was massive (although Grantaire didn’t have anything to compare it to. It’s not like he frequented garden centers. For all he knew, they were all this big.) Potted plants of every color were arranged on the shelves. Tiny cacti were placed on little tables at all five corners of the store. Flower petals of all kinds were scattered on the floor and the sun shined through the open roof (Grantaire was alright, though, because his thrift shop sombrero and neon windbreaker kept him safe), and thick green vines and bright yellow honeysuckles grew over and under through the gaps of the gated walls. The air smelled like sweet flowers. Bees buzzed around, but they steered clear of him, thankfully.

If Grantaire had the time, he would’ve set up a canvas right there and gone buckwild.

“Hey,” a tall ginger had said. The person was easily a foot taller than Grantaire. He had more freckles than skin and smudged words written in black permanent marker all over his left arm. He was also holding an open bright green umbrella over his head although there wasn’t any threat of rain in the sky. “Haven’t see you around here. I’m Jean Prouvaire. You can call me Jehan.” 

“Rene Grantaire,” Grantaire said, shaking Jehan’s offered hand. “You can call me Grantaire.”

“You looking for anything in particular or,” Jehan waved his free hand around the store. “Are you just sightseeing?”

“I just moved here, so I’m looking for a potted succulent plant thing?” Grantaire said, eyes searching throughout the store for something interesting enough to take home. “Trying to liven up the place.”

“Well, you’ve come to the right place!” Jehan said, wearing a bright smile. “You’ll end up leaving this place with more plants than you can carry. That’s my motto.”

As they looked for plants, Jehan asked him many questions. That was his favorite color (mauve), what was his favorite planet (Jupiter, probably), what was his favorite season (the wintertime), where did he move from (nowhere of importance. The midwest), what was his sign (what?), his star sign (not sure), what day was he born (February 29), so you’re a Pisces (sure), and on and on the questions went until the two found themselves chatting with each other as if they had known each other forever.

“What’s with the umbrella?” Grantaire had asked.

“Sun allergy,” Jehan had said.

“Sun allergy, huh,” Grantaire has said, curious if there was more to it. He had hoped, almost selfishly, that Jehan was in the same boat as him. 

“A mild case of  _ Solar urticaria _ ,” Jehan had explained. “It’s just one thing, y’know. It’s hereditary on my mom’s side, so there’s no way around it.” Jehan eyed up Grantaire’s getup. “What about you?”

“Oh, these old things?” Grantaire had said, wracking his head for something that could explain it away. “They were just wasting away in my closet space. Haven’t worn them in years so I decided to take them out.”

If Jehan didn’t believe him, he didn’t show it. Instead, he had said, “Let’s check these plants out. You’re planning on painting them, right? Oh! And since you’re new here, you should come check out one of our meetings at the Musain tonight. We work in activism and the arts. Not sure if that’s up your alley, but we’re the coolest group you’ll ever know.” He proceeded to tell him the time and location.

Grantaire had agreed, and they got to talking again. He finished paying for the plants, waved goodbye to Jehan, and hurried to the bus stop with almost too many potted succulents to carry.

He hadn’t told Jehan that he was a painter, but he supposed everyone had their  _ thing. _

Anyway, back to the vampires.

Secretive fucks, Grantaire concluded. Fuck those guys.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hope y'all had a great halloween!!
> 
> enter: enjy and the Boys
> 
> (and if it hasn't become obvious, this story is very non-chronological)

Looking back to when Grantaire had first heard Enjolras speak, he remembered feeling absolutely enraptured. The way the man’s curly hair seemed to frame himself like a halo, not unlike the angels depicted on the stained glass windows of churches he was no longer allowed to enter. His eyes were dark blue and appeared to take note of everything and everyone in the room, even glancing at the newcomer Grantaire, sparing him a warm smile and a nod. All were welcome, it meant. In fact, every person inside greeted each other with such closeness and warmth that it would’ve been obvious to a blind man that this group of friends were practically inseparable.

Enjolras also wore a red jacket and Grantaire found it stunning and  _ fitting. _

Perhaps it was because it was a shade similar to blood and he couldn’t take his eyes off it. Sue him. He was a vampire after all. 

How would he know that could’ve potentially been a friendship ended so changed so quickly into mutual animosity.

Then again, who was he kidding. He hadn’t a green thumb like Jehan  Everything Grantaire touched rotted.

Grantaire remembered how there were so many people there that first meeting. He hadn’t known all their names then, only Jehan’s, but he would later learn them. Looking back, he could put name to face. A tan and gangly man with dark hair, curlier and wilder than Grantaire’s, carried boxes of cupcakes inside the room (Vito de Courfeyrac). A dark-skinned man with the thickest glasses Grantaire had ever seen was joking about something with Enjolras, dozens of flyers held under his arm (Aaron Combeferre). A bald man was trying, and failing, to scrub red punch out of his white button-up (Lesgles-Bossuet) while a short tan woman wearing tie-dye and a short pale man wearing flannel were soaking up the punch on the floor with paper towels, done in such a methodological way that Grantaire assumed that this was a common occurrence (Musichetta Rivoli and Joly Park). A large man wearing a beanie was punching a projector until the light flickered onto the nearby wall (Rami Bahorel) while a red-head, with a look of one who would rather be asleep, was patiently explaining that punching the projector wasn’t the best thing to do (Jasper Feuilly).

Grantaire had watched them from where he stood in the doorway. The interior of the building was so lively. It almost seemed rude to intrude.

Then again, he was invited. And this time, he felt like it was an invitation worth heeding.

So, anyway. Back to Enjolras.

He was a looker.

“First order of business,” Enjolras had started, looking down at the paper he was holding. He had a smooth voice, deeper than Grantaire’s own. It was loud, even without a microphone, and steady, carrying the sort of confidence that made people want to listen. And he hadn’t even said anything that important yet. “It’s Joly’s birthday.” And he smiled such a bright smile that Grantaire’s heart jumped. He hadn’t even known his heart was still capable of doing that.

After off-key singing and sharp whistles, Enjolras began to speak. Really speak. He was an orator and Grantaire couldn’t stop listening to him even if he tried. He spoke of corruption, he spoke of economic inequality, he spoke of justice, but mostly he spoke of hope.

Hope, hope, hope. 

For Grantaire, “hope” was the cruellest word in existence because, for him, he possessed none, could find none.

“Hope is useless,” Grantaire had said suddenly, the words tumbling out before he had the foresight to reel them back in. He had assumed that it was said under his breath, but that was obviously not the case since every pair of eyes was on him. Why had he said that so loud?

But, fuck it. It needed to be said.

“Why, exactly, is hope “useless”, as you put it,” Enjolras had said from the front of the room and the temperature of the room seemed to grow colder. His dark blue eyes were as curious as the others, but there was something else there. Was it a glint of anger? Annoyance? Surprise? Whatever it was, it was intense.

“Yes,” Grantaire replied. He felt something like indignation burning underneath his skin. It was the sort of fire he hadn’t truly felt since before Turning, and it just  _ had  _ to happen when in the presence of naive idealists. Of course.

In his peripheral vision, he watched as some of the Amis leaned forward in their seats, expectant. All except Jehan, who had been hunched over an open notebook, carving words onto the lined paper as if he couldn’t get them out quickly enough. 

“What does hope do,  _ exactly? _ ,” Grantaire continued. He had leaned back into his chair until the first two legs of the chair rose into the air. He remembered being a child loving the fear of almost falling and the adrenaline of it gave him a rush, even now. “What is hope if not just the metaphorical pink bandaid that you stick on a bullet wound?  _ Hopefully,  _ it’ll scab up.  _ Hopefully _ , it won’t get infected.  _ Hopefully _ , it stops the bleeding long enough for the ambulance-- which, by the way, slaps you with a bill you’re too poor to pay for-- to come and take you an even more expensive hospital.”

“Is that what you believe?” Enjolras had asked, frowning now. The energy of openness that he had previously exuded was gone. He was as still as a Greco-Roman sculpture, with all the coldness that implied.

“I believe that you’re suggesting only surface level solutions when all these problems have been festering for years.” The heads in the room had turned back to him, like watching the spitfire flying from one end of the room to the other was the greatest spectator sport since the French Open. “You wouldn’t give ibuprofen to someone who just got stabbed or something.”

“What do you suggest then?” Enjolras had asked then, his words slow and deliberate. His arms were folded across his chest and his piercing glare stabbed Grantaire more than any wooden stake could. “That we become indifferent to the plight of others? That we shrug at someone’s misfortune? That we conclude that the world is damned and that there’s nothing we can do about it?”

Grantaire shrugged, perhaps proving Enjolras’ point. Earlier during the meeting, he’d gotten tea. He’d meant to drink it, but Enjolras’ speaking had distracted him until steam no longer rose from the cup. No doubt it was cold by now. “My opinion?”

“Yes,” Enjolras said. And that was when Grantaire first heard what he’d soon grow familiar with, the tone that he would eventually grown fond of.The  _ frustration _ . 

“Humanity sucks,” Grantaire said. He saw the faces of all but two grow defensive. Jehan was still writing. Feuilly was sleeping.

“Humanity sucks?” Enjolras tried the words himself, his frown growing deeper still. He grimaced like the sentiment itself was far too bitter to repeat. 

“Humanity sucks,” Grantaire repeated, drinking the cold tea. It tasted minty. “You’ve just gotta live anyway.

“If humanity sucks, you don’t walk away,” Enjolras had said, his words sharp and chastising. “You leave it better than you found it.”

Grantaire didn’t come back to the next two meetings, but he found that his life was far too boring without something to occupy his time, even if that time was spent among idealists.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i added a reference to one of my fav comics at the moment lol
> 
> also, i have like no idea where i'm grabbing my vampire lore from. i'm researching shit and everything is full of contradictions. i'm just doing my own thing!

In hindsight, Grantaire realized that  _ perhaps _ he might’ve had a bit of a bias regarding the whole “humanity sucks” declaration. 

Half a year after his Turning, someone must have put two and two together because he started getting hunted. Admittedly, he wasn’t the most clever at transitioning from one lifestyle to the other. Wearing shorts was just  _ asking _ to set his legs on fire. Trial and error taught him that not all sunscreen did what it claimed to. Sucking blood from small critters just ended up spreading a rumor about  _ El Chupacabra  _ manifesting in the town west of Santa Fe. He wore layers during the heat of the summer. The lack of a reflection was pretty awkward and difficult to explain, even if he showed up on video and pictures.

Some observant prick got the word out and Grantaire ended up having to sprint from a dog park after a cute woman he was walking and talking with pulled out a wooden stake and tried to stake him. In broad fucking daylight.

The group of hunters followed him from town to town until he hid inside a hotel basement for four months, enough time for them to think he’d gone somewhere else. Years later, the paranoia of being watched and followed gradually faded, but it never actually left.

But hold on, someone might ask Grantaire. Why say that humanity sucks as a whole? Isn’t it just that one group that gave you problems? Why lump all of humanity into a single unattractive stereotype?

Because, Grantaire might answer. People act like shit to each other without the victim being a proven creature of the night. Everyday, people get damned by the living. Differences separates people and rarely unites them. Hope does nothing more than blind a person to the inevitable.

Whatever.

The sun was setting below the horizon and Grantaire was on his way to meet Musichetta at the record shop she worked at, having promised to volunteer there until closing time (something about how her coworker called in sick). Turned out they were both fans of this 60s band, the Nocturnes, with a funny genre that sounded like half the band wanted to be a doo wop group while the other half wanted to do garage rock. As far as the other were concerned, they were the only fans alive.

To be fair, the music was bad. But the songs were played by seventeen-year-olds with more heart than talent and it was clear as day that the long-dead musicians were in it for the fun, not the glory.

"The nighttime is the right time, my dear," Grantaire softly sang under his breath as he walked down Saint Jackson Road. "So don't, don't you fear. So I wait, in the moonlight. The crickets, I hear."

Finally, he arrived at the location. At least according to his tourist map that Grantaire still carried around with him. He tended to have a good sense of direction, but he first had to figure out where everything else was in the first place.

“And just when I think you’re not coming, that’s when you appear,” Grantaire finished.

The windows and front door of the record shop was covered up and down with colorful posters, all with psychedelic designs. Some were advertising concert schedules for the next few months. Others dated months back, faded from the sun. 

A bell rang when Grantaire opened the door and entered the building, invitation not needed. Unless the invitation was Musichetta’s request that she come to the shop? He still hadn’t figured it out completely. Inside, there were rows upon rows of records. Rhythm and blues, soul, rockabilly, anti-war folk. Banners hung from the wall with pop art posters of Tears for Fears and Billie Holiday. Stacks of cassette tapes were organized in mini cubicles and a new wave song that Grantaire didn’t know played softly on an unseen radio.

He spotted a crouching figure with curly brown hair rifling through items scattered on the ground. The figure turned around at the sound of Grantaire’s footsteps, jumping slightly before sighing in relief. “Hey, Rene,” she said, because Musichetta insisted on calling everyone by their first name

“Hey, Musichetta.” Grantaire looked at the ground and realized the scattered items were comics. Superman, Captain Marvel, Watchmen.

“Help me with these,” she began, shoving  a fat stack of comics into Grantaire’s leg, as she was still crouching near the ground. “These rude-ass teenagers ran in here and went through the comics and left them on the ground. I don’t get paid nearly enough for this”

Grantaire crouched down and began to help. “Kids, am I right?”

“You can mark this down on your list as another one of the Vices of Man,” Musichetta said, wincing at one of the comics that had a torn cover. “Damn it.”

“Comic books?”

“Littering.”

“Interesting business model, I have to say,” Grantaire said as he stood. “A record store with a side business of a comic book shop?"

“It’s been like this before I got here,” Musichetta said, holding her free hand out for the comics Grantaire was holding. “And the place is still standing, so the formula works somehow.” A thoughtful look flashed across Musichetta’s face. “Then again, there used to be a small coffee shop thingy in the corner back when Alan was still feeling “spontaneous”, but coffee stains are harder to remedy than littering. I’ll take littering any day of the week.”

“Alan?” Grantaire asked, because it was yet another name he wasn’t familiar with.

“Alan Fauchelevent,” Musichetta said. The comics were finally back in their allotted placed. “Eccentric old man. Last I heard, he moved down south because he caught a case of “transcendentalism”, or something of that nature.” Musichetta used air quotes around transcendentalism. “I’ve never understood Alan a single damn day of my life.”

Grantaire helped with more cleaning as Musichetta continued to attend the needs of every customer that continued to walk through the door of NAME. While the majority of customers were kind and kept to themselves, occasionally one of those rude-ass types would barrel through the door and act needlessly demanding. While the customer’s backs were turned, Grantaire would make mocking faces that Musichetta tried to smother her laughter at. Grantaire turned up the dial when five customers came in five minutes before closing time, taking their sweet time rifling through the cassette tapes.

Once the last customer was out the door, Musichetta finally closed the shop and Grantaire followed her out. The sky was finally a pleasant dark blue, and the streetlights lining the street were turned on. It didn’t help much in Grantaire’s case (he was meant to be nocturnal and his eyes were better adjusted to the dark anyway). 

“And don’t get me wrong,” Musichetta was saying as they walked. Grantaire had mentioned that he had once worked at a bookstore years ago (he’d only lasted four months because he constantly showed up to the job drunk and used all his breaks reading everything he could get his hands on. It was a small midwestern town, so it wasn’t like they could afford to fire him for the time being). So, she decided to talk about her job. She was currently gathering her hair into a bun at the top of her head, scowling every so often when she missed a lock of hair again. “Working there is great. It just sucks sometimes because it’s, like, a consistent reminder that I could be creating my own music, but I’m  _ not _ .”

“What do you mean?” Grantaire asked, observing Musichetta’s expression. Her thin eyebrows were pinched and, although she looked forward, it was clear that her mind was somewhere else altogether.

“Like,” Musichetta sighed. “I used to play the piano, right? And then I got the bright idea to learn the trumpet. Then, the bass guitar. Then, the  _ acoustic  _ guitar. Then the flute, and a cello, and the fucking organ at my church.”

“Yeah?” Grantaire said.

“And I only ever mastered those instruments up to the beginners level. You know the phrase. Jack of all trades, master of none? It’s because I can’t focus on jack  _ shit. _ ”

“Better than a master of one,” Grantaire replied, ignoring the defeatist tone in his companion’s voice. The gravel crunched under his feet and a sharp smell in the air indicated that rain would start pouring soon. He hoped Musichetta’s apartment was close by.

“What?” Musichetta asked, and Grantaire could feel her eyes on him.

“The phrase is longer than that,” Grantaire said, loosening the scarf around his neck. “Jack of all trades, master of none. Better than a master of one.” He looked at her. “There’s no crime in trying your hands at multiple thing.”

“Yeah, but--” Musichetta tried to say.

“You’re at a beginners level for, what, six different instruments?” Grantaire said, playing up the incredulousness in his voice. “That’s six more instruments than I can play. But me? I’m a painter. I paint. I also dance sometimes and I used to box.” He saw Musichetta’s eyes widen. “I wasn’t perfect at the start of any of those things. Still not. There’s always room for improvement.”

“Um, wow.” Musichetta remarked, sounding shocked. “That was pretty profound coming from you.”

Grantaire rolled his eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Musichetta loudly scoffed, her lips curling upward. “Your back and forth with Gabriel,” she said, referring to Enjolras. “I have to say, that was the most exciting Musain meeting in probably more than a year. You should keep coming.”

Grantaire recalled that first meeting, having stayed to the very end. His first outburst of the night was far from the last. He looked for holes in Enjolras’ rationales, going ham with a hole-puncher when there were none to be found. Petitions do nothing, he had argued. Petitions got the word out, Enjolras had shot back. The federal government didn’t give a rat’s ass about the working class, he had argued. Then it’s a matter of starting locally and giving the working class a voice that no one can ignore, Enjolras had shot back. And hope. Always with the hope.

In some sick way, Grantaire had enjoyed the exchange, as heated as it had become. When was the last time he’d debated, even if it was about the failings of humanity? 

That, and he’d admired the man in red. He didn’t stumble for a second, pulling statistics out of the air to support his arguments, fashioning weapons from the quotes of civil rights leaders to prove his point. It may have been Grantaire’s mind, but Enjolras’ eyes seemed to glow with rage in the dim lights of Cafe Musain. Because, how dare  _ Grantaire  _ tell  _ him _ that humanity didn’t have a chance in heaven to redeem even its worst crimes?

Grantaire didn’t get nearly that deep into it. His philosophy was that either the vast majority of humanity compromised of assholes, or assholes were elected to lead them. Either way, they were fucked and had been for some time.

That, and Enjolras only seemed to become hotter the angrier he got. Grantaire was but only a simple vampire.

“After a performance like that, you gave me the impression that humanity didn’t stand a chance to improve itself. How am I exempt from that?”

“The self-improvement of a few individuals does not the whole of humanity make.” Grantaire felt a raindrop hit his nose. “Fuck. Didn’t the weather lady say there was a eighty-percent chance of rain?” 

As if on cue, lightning lit the sky and the violent clap of thunder quickly followed. Grantaire and Musichetta shared a look.

“Please tell me your apartment is nearby?” Grantaire’s eyes asked.

“We can make it if we run,” Musichetta’s eyes answered.

The exchange spanned only a second before the sky opened up and the one raindrop multiplied into hundreds. The two ran down the street, their feet splashing into quickly-forming puddles. The lamplights cast a soft orange glow and the second lightning strike of the evening lit the world in a bright shade of purple. 

They reached the front door of Musichetta’s apartment building and Grantaire waited behind as Musichetta opened the door. The freezing air of the A/C hit them and Musichetta shivered. Grantaire didn’t. Musichetta stepped inside and gestured for Grantaire to come inside, who apparently needed permission for this one.

“I hope you’re a fan of board games,” Musichetta said as they hurried up the stairs. “Joly and Bossuet got the gang together for a game night. Fair warning, I won’t hesitate to destroy you in Monopoly.”

“Will Enjolras be here?” Grantaire asked because of course he did.

Musichetta smirked once they reached the door. She went through her pockets to find the keys. “Don’t worry. You two will have plenty to argue about when we pull out Monopoly. Just argue in favor of it. He hates that fucking game.”

Grantaire laughed as Musichetta opened the door to the sounds of laughter.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so um. uh. how about that election?
> 
> anyways, here's more jehan and enjolras (i'll get around to adding more of the amis lol)

Grantaire was about 90% sure that Enjolras hated him (which was quite the accomplishment, he had concluded, after learning from the members of the Musain that it was difficult for Enjolras to hate _anyone_ ).

In other news, Jehan was a witch apparently.

“Pass me the ground rosemary,” Jehan was saying. He was wearing an apron that must’ve been white once upon a century ago, but every inch of it was covered of stains of every color. The most that Grantaire could see were the brown and orange and grey stains. Grantaire owned smocks that looked cleaner than that, and he was the furthest from a person who took "cleanliness is next to godliness" to heart. When asked about it, the redhead had said that he kept forgetting to separate his clothes in the laundry, and remembered too late that driers made stains permanent, so the stains remained even after cleaning. 

Jehan had invited Grantaire to the garden center which also, apparently, was a front for Jehan’s more important business operations. In the enclosure in the back, he concocted charms and protection spells and plenty of things that Grantaire wasn’t familiar with. He hadn’t seen this coming, but he believed it at face value (his life was already plenty strange). Sure, it explained his peculiarities (he always tossed spilled salt over his left shoulder and encouraged everyone to plant lavender for good luck), but how was he, an _entire vampire_ , going to deny the existence of witches?

“So, a witch's lair,” Grantaire had surmised.

“Now you’re just stereotyping,” Jehan had answered.

Now, Grantaire was searching high and low for the aforementioned rosemary. Not that he was familiar with the herb (he was okay at cooking, but more than often settled for takeout). He was inside a pantry, near the back of the garden center. There were so many different herbs and spices, all stacked neatly on top of each other. Clear jars full of grey sticks and purple berries, the golden heads of dandelions and the green leaves of a four leaf clover. All the colors, of course, were muted. He recognized the bare minimum, cinnamon sticks here and peach pits there. But the vast majority, he couldn’t name if someone paid him.

He also figured the combination of smells would’ve been bordering on overpowering, but his senses were dulled due to lack of his not-so-habitual blood-sucking. It was like being colorblind and having everything sound like it was coming from far away.

It was a problem for tomorrow, or later today at the earliest.

“Which one is that?” Grantaire said, because for all of the positive things he’d come to appreciate about Jehan, the witch apparently didn’t label a damn thing.

“It’s next to the mandrake root,” Jehan called out. Grantaire poked his head out of the pantry and gestured his hands uselessly, as if saying that he wouldn't know a mandrake root if it was dancing in front of his nose. Jehan clarified. “It’s next to the cinnamon sticks. It has the bright red top.”

“Why didn’t you just say to pass you the one with the bright red top?” Grantaire said, immediately spotting the jar. Because even as he slowly went colorblind, his eyes would never stop noticing the color of red.

“It hasn’t been a problem until now,” Jehan laughed. He took the jar that Grantaire was holding out and walked back to the table that he was working at. The table would’ve given Grantaire’s grandmother, a proud cook, a heart attack on the spot. A powdery white substance was sprinkled all about the table, stacks of dirty empty bowls were stacked at one corner, and measuring cups were scattered about. Jehan's sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, white dry ingredients traveling up the length of his heavily freckled arms. His springy red hair was gathered up into a bun at the top of his head.

“What’re you making anyway?” Grantaire asked as he watched Jehan work. Two glass bowls, one a shade darker brown than the other, were filled with a blend of ingredients. One bowl had wet ingredients while the other had dry Jehan poured the ground rosemary into one bowl, mixing it thoroughly. An old-looking cookbook was open to a page Jehan would glance at every so often. He’d mutter words in a language Grantaire didn’t know before mixing in the next ingredient. Once he finished with that, he started to pour the dry ingredients into the bowl with the wet ingredients (slowly, but not slowly enough to avoid making a mess).

Jehan didn’t bother to look up in order to answer. “A spell that protects one on their travels. And keeps pain at bay.” He grabbed a towel and wiped the mix from his fingers. “Right now it needs to rise.”

“Like bread?” Grantaire asked, trying to keep the disbelief in his voice down to a minimum.

“Well, it sort of _is_ bread.” Jehan threw the towel over his shoulder. “But special bread. You won’t find this on the market.”

“Oh, and why is that?”

“Witches and secrecy go together like a foot in a shoe,” Jehan answered, shrugging. Then, he frowned. “No, let me rephrase that. It’s more like, if you’re a witch, you’re part of a coven, a family. Some things can be shared but, more often than not, you keep things in the family.”

“So, what?” Grantaire began, sitting carefully on a stepladder. It was positioned near shelves of potted plants and Grantaire had earlier walked in to Jehan standing on the topmost rung, balancing himself with one leg out. All to water a few plants. Unbelievable.

“What?”

“You were born into a family of witches? Or you just read Wizard of Oz and really admired Glinda?”

“Well,” Jehan said, grinning. “Glinda is a fictional character.”

“Obviously,” Grantaire deadpanned.

“My father’s a human, my mother’s a witch,” Jehan said. “That’s not to say that my mother isn’t human, but I’m making the distinction for sake of an explanation.”

Grantaire nodded.

“So, yes, you could say I was born into it. I’d celebrate Christmas with my father’s family one year, celebrate Yuletide with my mother’s family the next. Different rituals made the holiday seasons much more exciting.”

“Sounds fun,” Grantaire considered, reminded that he hadn’t celebrated any holiday in general for the past four years (besides that one Halloween two years ago, but he didn’t even show up to that party with a costume. He already had fangs, and said fangs were loudly complemented by everyone there). The concept of celebrating a holiday, in Grantaire’s opinion, meant being with other people. And until now, Grantaire had been alone for so long.

“It _was_ fun,” Jehan said. “Both sides hated the other. My father’s family hated my mother because they thought she was far too strange— they’re very conservative types— and my mother’s family hated my father because he was a plain Joe.” He laughed suddenly. "I remember my Nana making a massive stink about how my father wore iron-creased corduroy pants, like it was a personal affront to her.”

“Clothes are that big of a deal in your family?” Grantaire asked.

“It's the tacky way or the highway.”

“And where did you fit in all this?” 

“Well, everyone loves me, so every December when everyone’s fighting, I get a dinner and a show.”

The pair continued to talk and work (the front of the garden center, after all, still had customers). Jehan helped a young couple find seeds for them to plant in their own garden, recommending the tomato plants. Grantaire helped a little old woman (who introduced herself as Agatha), and he felt uncomfortable the entire time, sweet though she was. It was extremely unprofessional to be gnawing on a tasteless granola bar (which did nothing to quell the gnawing feeling in his veins) while showing the grey-haired woman the peonies and pansies, but Grantaire would never forgive himself if he succumbed to his hunger and drained the woman dry. The dark-chocolate granola bar tasted like sand in his mouth, but it served as a distraction. He wouldn’t have been able to live with himself if he killed a harmless old lady.

And, no, the irony of “live with himself” wasn’t lost on him.

More customers came and went and, to Grantaire, it was a blur. He continued to go through the motions (no one seemed off-put by him yet, but that was only a matter of time). Grantaire didn’t know how many people he bagged and helped check out. Grantaire barely noticed Jehan asking him if he were alright. He didn’t know if he answered. He heard reverberating heart beats, only growing louder. Apparently Jehan closed the shop an hour earlier. It was only a few hours away from sundown.

Grantaire blinked and now he was again at the back section of the garden center, a wrapped loaf of bread in his hands. Jehan was saying something, but his voice sounded dampened, indistinct.

“Come again?” Grantaire asked, holding the bread to his chest. It felt like it was burning.

Jehan gave Grantaire a worried look and Grantaire wished that he wouldn’t. He wasn’t worth his worry. “I asked if you could do me a super-big favor and take the bread to the Enjolras’ place, but you're looking a little...”, he made a vague gesturing motion with his hands. “You're looking a little sick,” he finished.

Grantaire blinked and proceeded to shake his head. “It's nothing. I'm happy to help.” He was determined to keep his mind occupied, and if that meant helping his friends, that's what he was going to do. The last thing he wanted was to be alone with his thoughts. “I'm fine.”

Jehan still looked unsure, but must have sensed that Grantaire wasn't going to budge. He manifested a sharpie out of nowhere (though, it could’ve been in his hand the entire time and Grantaire would’ve been none the wiser) and quickly scribbled the address on loose paper before forcing it into one of Grantaire’s hands. “The bread’s for him.”

“Why?” Grantaire asked, smirking. “He's too good for store-bought?”

“ _Because_ ,” Jehan answered, “He told me he’s growing tired of soup.” Grantaire blinked and Jehan was already halfway done cleaning up the previously dirty table. “See you later, Grantaire.”

Grantaire didn’t remember making his own farewells. One second, he was inside the small kitchen and the next second, he was walking down the street, umbrella open above him. Behind his sunglasses, he saw that the sun was still out, but it hung perilously low over the horizon. His head pounded so much that he felt nauseous. He looked down at his hand and read the address again, looked back up, and continued on his way.

After walking for some time, Grantaire found the place he’d been looking for. Enjolras, for some reason, decided to live in a place near the outskirts of the city. An expanse of dark evergreens stretched back from behind the house as far as Grantaire could see. Grantaire used a free hand to pinch the bridge of his nose before walking towards the front door.

Grantaire knocked on the door once. And the once more. The blinds of the house were closed and the curtains drawn. Despite his senses continuing to dull, Grantaire could hear the sound of a heartbeat. Faint pulses sounded like striking gongs even though Grantaire probably wouldn’t be able to hear the sound of a bomb going off. He did his best to reel in his hunger— 

—and that was a fucking Herculean effort, even though he only had himself to blame— 

—and wonder why the door wasn’t open yet. He was painfully aware that someone was inside the house and that someone needed to open the fucking door.

Grantaire groaned as a pain went through his head and raised his fist to knock on the door again. However, before his knuckles touched the wood, the door swung open and his fists found nothing but air.

A man stood at the door, and the signature red jacket was the only thing that made Grantaire realize that the man was Enjolras.

Enjolras looked haggard, and that was a word that Grantaire would’ve never believed could be associated with Enjolras if he’d been asked only an hour before. Enjolras was poised, he was stoic. He never appeared tired or haphazard. Yet, here he was. His crown of golden curls fell crookedly, hair sticking in a frizzy array. His previously tan skin seemed paler and was shiny with a sheen of sweat. His breaths were labored and his hands, which held onto the door frame for dear life, shook furiously.

Despite all of this (and even though Grantaire couldn’t see the color), his dark blue eyes were as sharp as ever.

It may have just been his mind, but all at once, it seemed like the sound of rushing and pulsating blood dimmed. When Enjolras finally spoke, his voice sounded just as loud and clear and steady as Grantaire had first heard it the night he first saw him.

“Jehan said _he_ was coming,” Enjolras said, in lieu of an actual greeting. Grantaire internally rolled his eyes. Enjolras looked like he was fighting a bad bout of the flu, and he still managed to react to Grantaire’s presence with abject disdain.

“Jehan sends his love,” Grantaire replied with a smirk, because formal greetings were clearly off the table. He reached in his bag and pulled out the still-warm loaf of bread. Grantaire wondered if it smelled good. “I’ve got this bread. Word on the street says its magic.” He raised a hand and wiggled his fingers, making an oooing sound.

Enjolras’ eyes widened at this and Grantaire felt surprised himself. Enjolras was many things, but “easily surprised” was far from one of them. “He told you?” Enjolras asked in a tone Grantaire couldn’t recognize, like he was holding his breath.

“About him being a witch?” Grantaire said. “Yeah. I have to be honest, it makes a lot of sense.”

And a look of relief flashed across Enjolras’ face before returning to its original impassiveness. “Okay,” he said. He held out a pale hand towards the bread that Grantaire offered. In the process of taking the loaf, Enjolras’ hands only shook slightly.

“Thank you, Grantaire,” Enjolras said, nodding at him.

Grantaire was sure his smile looked more like a grimace at this point, but it had everything to do with the pain he was in. He'd hate if Enjolras thought it was because of him. “All in a day's work.”

The two men stood, looking at each other for a few more moments. Enjolras opened his mouth like he was about to say something, but a shudder appeared to to wrack his body.

“You alright there?” Grantaire asked, making a move to...do something. He wasn't sure what exactly he'd need to do in order to help, but Enjolras looked like it was taking all he had to stay on his own two feet. There was something wrong about that and all the fiery debates in the world wouldn't stop Grantaire from offering Enjolras his hand. If something ever happened to him, who would he argue with then?

Enjolras jerked back deeper inside the doorway, and Grantaire hoped the disappointment he felt wasn't obvious on his face. “It's fine. Don't worry about it.” Enjolras took a moment to catch his breath before glaring at him once more. “At the next meeting, I expect you to be on time. And sober,” added, no doubt referring to the time Grantaire had come to a meeting smelling of alcohol and going through the motions of a man under the influence. Little did Enjolras know that it was just a character that Grantaire felt comfortable performing?

Finally, he made a move to close the door.

“See you around,” Grantaire said. And he watched as the door shut, although he didn’t hear the lock click. He heard the muffled sounds of crunching, but he couldn’t pinpoint where exactly it was coming from.

Grantaire was only 80% sure that Enjolras hated him.

**Author's Note:**

> please let me know your thoughts and leave reviews!!!


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